Rising Stars, Falling Stars
by Broadwaylover5300
Summary: Two glee club has-beens come back to stir things up a bit.  April Rhodes returns!  Ships are undecided as of now, but we'll probably see some Klaine and April will probably hook up with somebody...


**Hey, y'all! Just a couple of notes before we get started:**

**First, I know some people are against OCs, and I have an OC as a major character here. Please give it a chance anyway?**

**Second, I've taken some liberties with the character of April Rhodes. Just so you know.**

**Second, this is my first voyage into the world of the first-person-present-tense and shifting viewpoints. Let me know how I do with it and with this fic (which is my first in the Glee fandom; yay!)!**

I look at the sorry specimen of a man lying in the bed next to me and sigh as he sneezes on me. He tries to pick his nose in a subtle way, but subtlety obviously isn't his strong suit. I take a shot of Bacardi and stare at my wristwatch. This guy's bought only another three minutes, and thank goodness; I have to get dressed for this guy named Will Schuester, who I'm apparently supposed to know from high school. I take another shot and light up a Pall Mall as I watch the clock tick down. Thank goodness this guy's not much for conversation; just the typical small talk was painful enough. The time's up; I force the guy out of bed and get changed into my trusty little black dress just as I hear the doorbell ring.

Of course, I don't recognize the guy, but like I said, it wasn't like I was expecting to. He introduces himself to me again, as if I don't remember his name. I mean, hell, I read the e-mail he sent me. I offer him a drink. He doesn't say anything, which could mean anything. I decide not to get him one.

"Wow, nice place, April" he says. "You must be doing pretty well for yourself."

"Yeah," I say, coming out of the kitchen. Not too bad."

And then, as if on cue, that stupid agent comes in with another bunch of fat-pocketed idiots and gives me the boot yet again. Man, I hate that lady. _Hate_ her.

So we're sitting out on the curb, and Will's giving me some sob story about how I didn't graduate and blah blah blah. I'm only halfway paying attention until he mentions something about joining the glee club.

I snap my head toward him, suddenly at full attention. "Back up," I say. "What'd you just say?"

"I was just saying, if you were to join the glee club and help us out, we would greatly appreciate it. The kids are excited for the chance to work for you. And," he pauses for what's apparently supposed to pass for dramatic emphasis, "... I bet that if you were to agree to this, and take some of my Spanish classes on the side, I could talk the higher-ups into giving you the credits you need…"

My mind does a fade-out again as he drones on and on and _on_ about credits and graduation and a bunch of other bullshit that I don't care about. I start wishing for an Irish coffee and I wonder how much Dom Perignon I have left. My mind comes back to earth just in time to hear Will ask me, once again, if I want to re-join the glee club.

"Yes," I say immediately. I mean, what else am I gonna do?

xxx

I stare at the blank screen, twisting and racking my brain to try to get the words to come out. It's the most frustrating thing on earth; some projects, the words come smooth as silk, others, they don't come at all. I haven't had a smooth project in twenty years. I wish I still had some acid to drop; that always kick-started my muse. However, when it went illegal, I got rid of most of it. Now, I'm sorry I did. I could always buy some from some dealer, but I don't know that it's worth the money.

I hear the doorbell ring. God, who is it now? I stand up and stomp over to the door. I grab it and swing it open. Some guy I've never seen before is standing in my doorway.

"Who the hell are you?" I say.

This guy smiles and extends his hand. "Mr. Wallace, I'm Will Schuester-"

Damn. It's another interviewer. Don't these guys get the hint? I slam the door in his face. I walk back to my computer and stare at the screen again, trying to will words onto the screen. When that doesn't work, I pick up one of my old books, _The Tequila Summer_, and leaf through the pages, hoping that the words I wrote so long ago in that old bomb shelter on Waikiki will bring back my muse now.

I don't notice Schuester making his way quietly across the room until he's halfway to my desk. I slam my book down on my desk. The sound reverberates across the room. Schuester jumps; it makes me happy to see him frightened.

"You've _really _pissed me off now," I say as I open the closet next to my desk and look at my arsenal. My old .44? No, don't want to kill the guy. Just want to give him a good scare. Ah, my Louisville Slugger. That ought to do it. The fact that it's signed by Roger Maris might add a nice touch.

"Uh, what are you doing?" I hear Schuester say.

I turn toward him, bat in hand. "If you don't get out of here, I'm gonna smash your skull in," I say in a sweet voice. "That clear enough to you?"

His eyes widen and he turns to run, but then he turns back around with a confused look on his face. "But you're a pacifist," he says.

My face falls. Shit! He's right. The only time I've used my guns is for target practice.

Schuester, a little more sure of himself, points to a chair. "May I?"

I shrug. "Go ahead," I say. No point trying to be tough now. Schuester seats himself.

"Now, Mr. Wilson, I just want you to know that I wouldn't be here if this wasn't extremely important," he says.

"Oh, God," I say. "I don't contribute to charities, Mac."

"Oh, no, sir, that's not what I want."

"Then who are you?" Surprising that he's not asking for money; that's all most people want from me anymore.

"I'm Will Schuester," he smiles. "I'm Spanish teacher at William McKinley High in Lima, Ohio."

"Ah, hell, I know where it is," I say. "I went there, you know."

"I know, sir. That's why I'm here," Schuester says.

"Why? I only went there two years before I dropped out," I say.

"I know. I was wondering if you'd like to get your diploma."

I snort with laughter. "Don't need it. I've got an honorary doctorate from Berkeley. I didn't finish high school and I've got a higher degree than you anyway."

"I know that, too," Schuester says. "That's also why I'm here. You revolutionized journalism and non-fiction writing. You hung out with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and you helped Brian Wilson write some of the Beach Boys' songs. You ran for police chief of L.A. and won. You traveled with the Hell's Angels for two years and lived to tell about it. You hung out with the Apollo astronauts. You ran for President. You're a famous political activist and one of the greatest thinkers of our time. Quite impressive for a dropout. But before all that, you were in glee club at McKinley, and I understand you've got a pretty good voice still, even at 62."

"Yeah, so I was in glee club. What about it?" I still don't know what he's driving at.

"Well, as a tribute to your alma mater, would you like to come back and sing with us?" Schuester asks.

I look at him for a good while before I burst out laughing. "Why would I do that?"

Schuester shrugs. "For whatever reason you want. Publicity. Tuning up your vocal cords again. Getting more experience for another book or article. Take your pick."

I perk up with that last option. The first two don't appeal to me; I've got all the publicity I'll ever need and I don't care too much about my vocal cords. But new material? More grist for the mill? Sounds good.

I sigh heavily and extend my hand. "It's a deal," I say.


End file.
